In the morning of five days past, Eofyn awoke in his camp-tent, his kin and tribe-friends still asleep in their bedrolls, with a vision aching at the edge of his sight:
A powerful young mare, her coat shining moon-silver, stood in a forest glade, her limbs strong and lithe, her head proud and high. Around her slumbered a pack of winter wolves, their coats reflecting hers. One wolf, rat-furred and dark eyed, crept through the shadows, and pounced on the mare, only to die. The mare reared up and split the wolf-rat’s skull, and it measured its length upon the earth and its life-blood darkened the soil.
The other wolves awoke. One was a giant of wolves, almost as large as the mare. Another stood silent, bearing the scars of its birth-pack. A third stalked in the shadows with hunter-eyes. A fourth, the veteran of many hunts, stood by the mare’s side. And the last commanded the rest of the wolves, bending their wills to his.
A doom then fell over the clearing. As the shadows lengthened, trees deep in the forest creaked and grew, pulling their roots from the soil. Faces then appeared upon the trees, twisted and rot-scarred, and limbs grew into arms, branches into taloned fingers, and knots burned into ember-eyes. The misshapen forms crept forward, despoiling the animals, turning the grasses to mud, the streams to filth. Clouds then crossed the sky, covering stars and moon, and the giant wolf howled in a voice rich and mournful.
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Eofyn woke to the sound of wolves calling far in the distance, as the stars died and the sun began to shine over the edge of the world. He felt a fate upon him, and could not rest. He buckled on his war-shirt, took his stout long-spear in hand, and bore his war-sword and hunting bow with its white-feathered arrows. He went to his lord’s hall to tell his grandfather of his dream and his doom, and then left alone into the world to pursue it.
